


last one’s out

by hanlonlovebot



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Everybody Lives, M/M, bill has an anonymous advice column, it starts off pre-chapter 2 and then we go post-chapter 2, mike writes said anonymous advice column
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanlonlovebot/pseuds/hanlonlovebot
Summary: It’s loneliness now: or maybe it always has been. It’s a great, big, ugly monster he carries on his shoulders. He’s started to hunch under its weight.or, mike writes to an anonymous advice column asking for advice.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. to think that we could stay the same

**Author's Note:**

> i hate this but i’m determined to finish this story so you’re all gonna have to deal with that

Mike Hanlon spends a long time on his own. It’s a matter of months at first, when he gets out of college. No parties, no dates, no get-togethers. He notices the difference and sinks into this new habit. He doesn’t think much of it. In hindsight, he doesn’t realize what he’s about to face.

It doesn’t feel like long until it becomes a matter of years. Decades. No parties, no dates, no get-togethers. No people to call friends any longer. There’s some invites, sure. Carole Danner keeps asking whether he would like to try her cookies sometime. Mike keeps politely declining.

It’s loneliness now: or maybe it always has been. It’s a great, big, ugly monster he carries on his shoulders. He’s started to hunch under its weight. It whispers sometimes, screams more often than not. A reminder. A warning. It is coming and you cannot escape it. You will be alone and then you will die. It’s unbearable. He bears it anyway.

It’s one Friday night in particular when he eventually, finally feels bad for himself. Lets himself feel that way. He’s been awake too long when he’s sitting with his head in his hands and thinks, it’s been twenty-four years of this. It’s been twenty-four years and I am alone.

And, right now, he thinks he’s allowed. He thinks he might be crazy for not having felt bad for himself any sooner. It’s been a fifth of a century, it’s been his entire adulthood without a real friend. It’s been loneliness since his friends began to move away, and doesn’t that feel like a lifetime ago. He’s spent a lifetime in solitude; he’s spent a lifetime holding everything in, and now he feels as if he might burst.

Mike is sitting on his bed, only moving to take the occasional sip of water. A newspaper on his nightstand functions as a coaster. After the fourth time of putting down his glass, he picks the paper up.

He flips through the pages determinedly. There’s something he’s looking for, although he couldn’t tell you if you asked him what. He knows when he sees it. His fingers rest on the page of the paper’s advice column, and Mike scans over the page. His eye falls on the icon the writer uses to sign off: a turtle. There’s a vague realisation, slipping away from him a second later.

Here’s the thing: Mike knows this column is meant for victims of disloyal partners and teenage gossip. The problem is: Mike is alone and desperate. Yes, desperate, not for the first time in his life but probably for the second, and he has nowhere else to go. Maybe, no, he’s certain that this is the only chance at intimacy, at vulnerability, at something along the lines of friendship he has. Anonymity, he thinks, is the only shot he has.

He goes looking for a pen in the midst of his mess and when he finds one he writes, and writes, and before he knows it, he has a letter: an acknowledgment of the hurt he’s going through, something touchable that says I am not okay because that’s what this is. He is hurting. This big, ugly monster has broken his back.

He finds an envelope to write down the paper’s address and picks out a stamp. On it is a picture of a robin, picked with Stanley in mind. Everything seems to be a reminder of his friends now that loneliness has him in a chokehold. He reminds himself with the cut-outs on his walls. Pictures of his favourite Marsh designs and promotions for Bill’s books, advertisements for Stanley’s business and the company he knows Eddie works for. A poster of Richie’s first big tour. Photographs of Ben’s buildings.

(If he doesn’t remind himself why he’s doing this, Mike thinks he might go mad.)

He puts the stamp on gently, slowly, to ensure it’s put on straight. It feels like it should be, like this is too important of a letter for it to be crooked. When it’s on he moves the envelope to rest on his desk, filled with paper and filthy dishes. Silently, Mike promises himself to clean tomorrow.


	2. it’s funny how you always remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mike writes his first letter.

Dear writer,

I write to you because I have no one else to write. I’ve been alone, truly alone, for two decades and four years, now. Solitude weighs heavier with each day that passes. I find my trust in life lessening: I no longer believe everything will come to be okay. I wonder whether this loneliness is worth it at all. I’m always waiting, always alone.

I can’t begin to describe the burden I’m forced to carry, and so I won’t try to explain it to you. Normally, I’m not one to complain. Accepting things as they are usually comes easy to me. But now, in the midst of my desperation, I have trouble holding it all in. I’m hurt. I long for more than simple company, I long for a friend. I long for true, meaningful relationships. Perhaps worst of all is that I know I’ll be unable to find it anytime soon.

Emotional intimacy is something I haven’t known since my teenage years; today, I’m nearing my forties. That summer — one that I spent with my greatest friends — was the only time I knew true companionship. I’ve never attempted to replicate that feeling with any other person since. I know I wouldn’t succeed. They moved on long ago; I remained in the town we grew up in. I wait for them to return. I only hope that when I reach out, they will remember me. I pray they will come back. I pray they will be safe.

This is, I think, the core of my problem. This seemingly endless waiting. I‘ve spent all of my adult life without a friend and it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be able to trust, to allow yourself to feel safe. Any description of the feeling seems empty nowadays, distant and abstract.

Despite my complex situation and lack of detail, Writer, I hope you will be able to muster some advice. Any advice, no matter how small, will be appreciated greatly. You, I’m afraid to admit, are my last hope.

Sincerely,  
M.H.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on tumblr @jomcrch


	3. it’s funny how i still forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bill writes mike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made some small changes to mike’s letter. i’d recommend re-reading the last chapter if you’ve done so already!

Dear M.H.,

Let me start this letter with an apology — not only for my late response and your absence in last week’s column, but for your hurt, too. The loneliness you described is one I can’t begin to imagine.

I won’t insult your intelligence by suggesting you join a club of sorts, or maybe a support group, which I’m sure you’ve tried. And, while I can’t fully grasp why you wouldn’t reach out to your old friends, I’ll trust your judgement.  
That being said, it seems to me that there isn’t much advice I can offer you. Not only would it be hypocritical for one lonely man to advise another, but I don’t think there’s any simple solution I can give. Believe me when I say I’ve tried; believe me when I say I’ve spent sleepless nights thinking about you — about what to do, how to help; believe me when I say I’ve been screaming at my publisher to try and get this printed. You deserve to be heard.

I can’t give you advice, or a solution, no matter how badly I want to. I can’t take your loneliness away. What I can do, however, is offer you a friend – a pen pal – to listen to your woes. To, maybe, offer you a shoulder to lean on when times get tough, even if it’s only from a distance.  
Here’s my idea: if you agree, we could write one another whenever we want. We could create a comfortable space between the two of us to share whatever we want to share. We could start building a friendship.

M.H., I’m looking forward to your response no matter what choice you make. For now, I wish you the very best. I hope you never feel the way you did when you wrote me ever again.

Sincerely,  
Your Writer.


End file.
